


The Snow Queen

by killabeez



Category: Highlander, Highlander (1986 1991 1994 2000 2007), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Episode Related, Episode: s05e12 Comes a Horseman, Episode: s05e13 Revelation 6:8, Fairy Tales, First Kiss, First Time, Futures Without End, Hans Christian Anderson, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-01-15
Updated: 2001-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:51:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rather silly and somewhat strange retelling of the Hans Christian Andersen story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Demon and the Looking Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Originally printed in Futures Without End IV, and owing much to Hans Christian Andersen.

The story really begins not at the beginning, but several years before that, in a small Northern town across the Western sea; it begins with a sorcerer who had the heart of a demon, and who was very wicked indeed. This sorcerer bore the mark of his witchcraft on his wrist and went by the name of Horton, and it was his mischief which fostered everything that happened after.

One day, when he was in a merry humor, the demon sorcerer crafted a looking-glass that made everything fine and beautiful shrink up to nothing when reflected in it, but all those things that were frightening and unpleasant were magnified and made to appear ten times worse than before. In this mirror, the loveliest landscapes looked like boiled spinach and the most beautiful people appeared hideous. Their features were so distorted that their friends could never recognize them, and whatever was noble and good and brave in the world was made to appear craven and twisted with ugliness. The sorcerer found this vastly entertaining, and chuckled with pleasure at his clever work.

The acolytes that followed at the sorcerer's heels and bore his mark were indeed most impressed with this wonderful creation, and worked to spread the fame of the sorcerer's looking-glass far and wide. They said that for the first time, the world and its inhabitants could be seen as they really were, and in time they carried the mirror to nearly every corner of the world, so that there was hardly a person or place that had not been reflected and misrepresented in it. Puffed up with their own importance and pride in their master's accomplishment, the acolytes came at last to a church at the center of the most beautiful city on earth. Within the church was a noble, pious priest whose spirit shone with the light of heaven, and the acolytes hungered to reflect his face in the glass and see what hidden ugliness it would reveal. They trapped the priest near the altar, but before they could lift the mirror to shine it in his face, the glass slipped out of their hands and shattered upon the stone floor. Frightened of what their master would do to them when he learned what had happened to his looking-glass, the acolytes killed the priest and fled.

The sorcerer, however, was not displeased, for a fierce wind gusted through the open doors of the church and swept the millions of tiny fragments into the air, carrying them away and distributing them far and wide to every corner of the world. Now the looking-glass would cause more grief than ever, for some of the shards were no bigger than a grain of sand. If one of these tiny fragments flew into a person's eye, it would lodge there unbeknownst to him, and from that moment he would see everything through a distorted lens, only able to see only the worst side of what he looked at, for even the smallest shard retained the same power which had belonged to the whole mirror. A few of the pieces were so large that they might be used as window-panes and cause greater unhappiness; other pieces might be made into spectacles, a dreadful happenstance for those who wore them, for they could see nothing either rightly or justly.

Better still, the demon knew, someone might get a fragment of the looking-glass in their heart, and this would be a terrible, wonderful thing, for the poor victim's heart would grow cold, turning at last to a lump of ice. At all this the wicked sorcerer laughed till his sides shook; it tickled him so to see the mischief he had done and to think of what might become of the many little fragments that still floated about in the air.

Even he couldn't have predicted what would happen to one of them.


	2. The Orphan Boy and the Solstice Child

So many people want to live in the most beautiful city in the world that the houses are built close together, and there isn't room for everybody to have even a small garden. Those who live there must be satisfied with a few flowers in a pot, or perhaps a scrap of vine in a window box.

In this city there lived an orphan boy who was very lonely, even though he was surrounded by people. He'd had a family once, but it was so long ago that he could barely remember them, and what memories he had were not happy ones, but full of fear, and grief, and shame, and best left alone. Now he lived in a tiny garret at the top of one of the tall, narrow houses along the river, with only his books for company, living on what scraps he could find or earn by his wits. The one source of joy in his life came from the beautiful rose bushes he carefully nurtured in boxes on the crumbling balcony outside his garret window.

In time, the rose bushes shot forth long branches heavy with their huge, white blooms, which he trained around the window and into a beautiful, drooping spill over the rusted railing. At times when he felt most alone, he would tend his garden for hours, and then sit reading and watching the roses nod lazily in the breeze, imagining that the flowers were happy, and that they didn't feel the harshness or loneliness of the world, but only how much he loved them. And so, in this fashion, the orphan boy grew into a young man, and the young man's name was Methos.

One day, Methos came home from a day of prowling the city's bookshops. His arms were empty, for he had little money, but a day spent with books always raised his spirits, and so it was that he went out onto the balcony with a light heart to greet his rose bushes and to see if any new blooms had opened that day.

He was surprised to find that across the water-pipe, on the tiny balcony that faced his own, someone had placed a flower box, and in the flower box, a small rose bush was growing, already bearing several of the most beautiful red blooms he'd ever seen. Now, the garret across the water-pipe had been empty as long as he'd lived there. This was most curious, he thought. Most curious indeed. And he was seized by a fierce desire to know who had moved into that flat and planted those beautiful red roses.

The window was closed, however, and Methos was a rather shy sort, so he did not go over at once and knock on the glass. Instead, he decided that he would wait for the garret's owner to come out, for surely he or she must tend the rose bush some time, and Methos would then be able to introduce himself.

A day passed, then two, which then stretched into a week, and though Methos could sometimes see a figure moving behind the thick glass, or the flicker of a fire in the grate, the garret's owner seemed determined to remain a mystery. At last Methos was forced to go out and seek an afternoon's work so that he might have something to eat.

When he returned and opened the window onto the balcony, he found that another red rose bush had been planted beside the first and was blooming contentedly alongside it. Perplexed, and being a most curious sort and capable of great stubbornness, Methos determined that he would not leave his garret again until he had discovered who lived across the water-pipe.

For two days he stayed at the open window, pruning and talking to his roses until they seemed to beam and nod happily with all the attention. But on the third day, just as he was about to give in to his fierce curiosity and knock on the glass after all, he heard the latch click at the window across the way, and it swung open. There in the window stood a handsome young man, perhaps a little younger than himself, with a kind face and sad eyes that made Methos's heart squeeze unexpectedly.

The young man seemed surprised to see him sitting there, and a little taken aback, but after a moment he smiled tentatively, and Methos saw then that although his eyes were sad, when he smiled, fine lines appeared at their corners as if he had once laughed a great deal. Maybe it was in that moment that Methos began to fall a little in love with the young man, or maybe it was when he heard the dark, velvet voice say, "Hi," and then, "I'm Duncan," and finally, because Methos's heart was pounding so hard that he couldn't seem to find anything intelligent to say, "Your roses are beautiful."

"Thank you," Methos said at last. "Yours are very nice, too." And then, when he remembered that he hadn't introduced himself yet, "My name is Methos." And he found himself wondering why those dark eyes were so sad when Duncan had plainly known laughter once, and why he'd never noticed before how beautiful red roses could be, and whether he might have found a man who would prove to be a true friend.

For his own part, Duncan was thinking that he'd never before noticed how beautiful and pure white roses could be, and that perhaps he only noticed it now because Methos's skin was fair and palely beautiful like his roses. Methos, his heart repeated, turning the name over like a shining stone found at the bottom of a stream, and for the first time since he'd had everything he held dear taken from him, he began to think he might learn to laugh again.

All through the long summer, the two would spend their days making their way in the city, but each afternoon they would hurry home, climbing the steps to their tiny apartments and opening the windows between them, stepping out onto the balconies between and meeting there. They shared the late afternoon sunshine and often stayed late into the evening, eating their supper together under the stars. Sometimes they tended their roses, encouraging them to twine together into a beautiful arched bower of red and white blooms, talking of books and philosophy and music; sometimes they would just sit quietly together and read, or play chess by moonlight under the lush span of roses. Methos seemed to remember everything he read, and was always full of stories to share, so often Duncan would merely sit and listen, content just to hear him talk.

And as the summer drew to a close and autumn began to nip at the air, sometimes they found that it was enough just to lean their heads together across the water-pipe and talk quietly. So it was the night Methos confessed to Duncan how lonely he had been, and how glad he was that Duncan had happened to take the garret across the way. So it was the night Duncan told Methos the story of the family that had been taken from him, the brother killed in a duel in a tunnel beneath the city, the lover lost to him across the ocean, the kind priest who had adopted him killed brutally in his own church. And though Methos knew nothing of lovers or brothers or fathers, he held his friend while Duncan cried, glad to know at last what name to give the sorrow that had always dwelt in his friend's eyes.

At last, these pleasures came to an end, for winter came to the city and at times the windows were quite frozen over. But on days when this happened, the two friends would warm copper pennies on the stove and press them against the frozen panes until a round hole would appear in the frost through which they could signal to one another. Then they would each go down the long staircase and meet in the street, where they would walk together in the falling snow and talk, for they never seemed to run out of subjects that interested them. If it got too cold, a steaming cup of coffee from a street vendor would be enough to warm them, and off they would go, on some new tangent of conversation.

"Those are really white bees swarming, you know," said Methos one day when the snow was falling thickly.

"Have they a queen bee?" asked Duncan, playing along.

"To be sure they have," said Methos seriously. "See, there she flies, where the swarm is thickest. She's the largest of them all, and can fly as high as the clouds. Often at midnight she flies through the streets and looks in at the windows. This makes the ice freeze on the panes into wonderful shapes that look like flowers and castles."

"Yes, I've seen them," said Duncan, laughing at the fanciful turns Methos's imagination sometimes took.

"Don't laugh," Methos warned, though his mouth twitched. "She is not a bee you want to mess with."

"Only let her dare try to harm us," said Duncan staunchly, for he had a bad habit of thinking that courage and honor would protect him from any threat. "I'll set her on the stove, and then she'll melt."

Methos smiled, but he changed the subject, and for the rest of the day he felt uneasy, though he couldn't have said why.

One evening, when Duncan was at home, half-undressed because the stove had warmed his garret until it felt like high summer, he missed Methos and went to the window, pressing a penny against the glass and peering out through the little hole. A few flakes of snow were falling, and one of them, rather larger than the rest, alighted on the edge of one of the flower boxes. This snowflake grew larger and larger, till at last it became the figure of a woman, dressed in garments of white gauze, which looked like millions of starry snowflakes woven together. She was fair and beautiful, with thick chestnut hair and beautiful green eyes, but made of ice—shining and glittering ice. Her eyes sparkled like bright stars, but there was neither peace nor rest in their glance. Still, she was alive, and more beautiful than anything Duncan had ever seen. He wondered if perhaps she was an angel.

She nodded toward the window and waved her hand. Duncan was somewhat alarmed, but curious, and it seemed that he heard her speak his name in a Voice that lit a spark deep inside him, making him want to obey her wishes. Before he knew what he was doing he found himself trying to open the window. Frozen over as it was, the hinge would not budge even under the pressure of his full strength.

When he looked again, the woman was gone, but it seemed as though he saw the shape of a wolf disappearing over the railing, the white plume of its tail brushing against the window.

On the following day there was a clear frost, and very soon came the spring. The sun shone, the young green leaves burst forth, the swallows built their nests. Windows were opened, and Duncan and Methos spent long afternoons once more in their makeshift garden, high above all the other rooms of the city.

How beautifully the roses bloomed that summer. Methos woke one day and realized that for the first time, he knew what it was to be happy, and what it was to belong, and for long days afterward he held this new awareness close and thought about the day when he would at last find the courage to tell Duncan the secrets that he kept in his heart, the dark memories that he scarcely admitted even to himself, and the fragile, inescapable certainty he felt every time Duncan looked at him. And on good days, he thought maybe he could see an answering certainty in those dark eyes, just waiting for him to speak.

Those were splendid summer days. How beautiful and fresh it was out among the rose bushes, which seemed as if they would never leave off blooming; they only wrapped their fragrance around the two friends and grew heavier on the vine by the day, as if with expectation. And so it happened on a day when the first bite of autumn chilled the air, and Duncan and Methos sat reading passages from their books to one another, that just as the clock in the church tower struck twelve, Duncan stopped in the middle of reading from a tale of knights and damsels—his favorite sort of book—and got a funny look on his face.

"Duncan?" Methos asked, suddenly afraid.

And his friend drew a sharp breath as if he had been struck, and his book fell from his hand. "Something's the matter with my heart," he said faintly. And then soon after, "There's something in my eye."

Methos tilted Duncan's head back, and looked into his eye, but could see nothing. "Does it hurt?" he asked.

Duncan blinked. "I think it's gone," he said.

But it was not gone. It was one of those bits of the looking-glass—that magic mirror, of which we have spoken—the ugly glass that made everything fine and beautiful shrink up to nothing when it was reflected in it, but all those things that were frightening and unpleasant were magnified tenfold. Worse, Duncan had also gotten a small shard in his heart, which very quickly froze into a lump of ice. He felt no more pain, but the glass was there still. "Why do you look so worried?" he said to Methos at last, a trace of scorn in his voice. "It makes you look ugly. I'm all right now." He frowned, noticing something. "Well, look at that," he said suddenly, "that red rose is worm-eaten, and this white one is quite crooked. How ugly they are, after all—just like the boxes in which they stand," and then he reached out and pinched off the two roses with a vicious twist of his hand and threw them off the balcony.

"Duncan, what are you doing?" Methos asked, feeling a dangerous fury stirring in him, the feeling of betrayal as intense as if his friend had struck him.

Hearing it in his voice, Duncan sneered at him, an expression that twisted his handsome face into something Methos barely recognized. Duncan stood up and tore off another rose out of pure spite; before Methos could react, he had turned and disappeared through his own window, shutting it behind him with a savage snap.

Sick at heart, stomach churning with hurt and uneasiness, Methos turned and went inside his own garret. For long hours he couldn't read or even think straight, so surprised and hurt was he, and he only sat in the shadows of his room as night came on, lost in a haze of confusion and fear, and troubled by dark, disturbing memories that he'd thought banished forever. Even the sight of the roses in the moonlight, which had so often made him warm with happiness, was painful to him now. That night sleep didn't come for a long time, and when at last he sank into an exhausted, fitful doze, old nightmares he'd forgotten woke him in a cold sweat of fear and despair.

The next day, he was surprised to see Duncan out on his balcony, and hoping that whatever darkness had come over his friend had passed, he opened his own window and called to him across the way. Duncan looked up, but Methos saw then that he was holding a pair of scissors and methodically snipping the blooms off his roses. Methos's heart sank.

"What do you want?" Duncan asked. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

"I thought..." Methos cleared his throat. "I thought you might like to read some more of Gawain's adventures to me." He knew that was Duncan's favorite book, and thought that maybe reading it would bring his friend back to himself.

But Duncan snorted derisively and went back to his snipping, the red petals falling like tears at his feet. "That book is only fit for children. Adventuring and chivalry and such—pure drivel, isn't it?"

Privately, Methos had entertained similar thoughts on occasion, but to hear Duncan say it made him feel sick to his stomach. "You're not going to cut them all back, are you?" he asked at last, trying to keep his tone light, as if he didn't care.

"Why not?" Duncan said, still snipping. "It's for the best, diseased as they are. I can't believe I didn't notice it before."

A part of Methos wanted to go inside and shut the window and curl up with his pain when Duncan said that, but he remembered the gallant promise Duncan had made to defend him from the imaginary Queen of the Bees, and he couldn't just give up. And so all that morning he tried everything he could think of to bring Duncan back to himself. He told fanciful stories that had made Duncan laugh in the past, but Duncan would just interrupt him with "but," or make fun of him, mimicking his accent and poking fun at his foolishness. He asked Duncan to go out with him, thinking that if they walked along some of their favorite paths, maybe it would help. Duncan agreed to go with him, but instead of taking pleasure in the crisp blue sky and the sweet scent of leaves turning, he began to mimic the speech and gait of persons in the street. All that was peculiar or disagreeable in a person he would imitate directly, and people commented on his cleverness. But it was the piece of glass in his eye and the coldness in his heart that made him act like this.

In the absence of anyone else to make fun of, he grew bored and left Methos standing at one of their favorite coffee-stands, having caught sight of a pretty blonde in a red coat and gone chasing off after her. Methos followed long enough to see Duncan smile that smile at her, the one that always made Methos's heart skip a beat; only Methos knew him well enough to see that the smile did not reach his eyes. It didn't seem to matter; the blonde was quite charmed and let Duncan lead her away with her hand tucked in his arm.

Methos went home and did not open his garret window for many days after that. He didn't cover his roses against the cold, either, and when the first snow came, they withered and died, and Methos tried not to notice, and told himself he didn't care. Sometimes he saw Duncan in the street with one woman or another, never the same one, and he told himself he didn't care about that, either.

One winter's day, he came home at nightfall from a day at the bookseller's, no more cheered than he had been that morning, and by chance Duncan was coming home at the same time. When he saw Methos, he waved casually as if it had been only a day since they'd seen each other, and not almost two months. Hating himself for being so weak, Methos waved back and stood waiting for him, and when Duncan reached him, Methos couldn't help noticing the way his nose and ears were pink from the cold, his dark eyes bright against the flush of his cheeks. Methos was almost able to fool himself that it was the old Duncan, until his friend brought out a burning-glass, then held out the arm of his black coat and let the snowflakes fall upon it.

"Look in this glass, Methos," he said, and Methos saw how every flake of snow was magnified and looked like a beautiful flower or a glittering star. "Is it not clever?" said Duncan, "and much more interesting than looking at real flowers. There is not a single fault in any of them, and the snowflakes are quite perfect till they begin to melt." He smiled brightly at Methos, not waiting for an answer, and said, "I'm going up to the gardens, to skate on the lake. You should come," he said, as if he didn't know perfectly well that Methos hated the cold. And he hurried inside, reappearing in a moment wearing thick gloves and carrying a pair of skates over one shoulder. Without another word to Methos, he was off down the street.

On the wide lake in the center of the city, the boldest among the young men would often tie up to people's sledges and go with them a good way on their skates. This was capital. But while they were all amusing themselves, and Duncan with them, a great sledge came by; it was painted white, and in it sat someone wrapped in a white fur and wearing a white cap. The sledge drove twice round the lake, and Duncan lashed himself fast to it by the wrist, so that when it went away, he followed with it. It went faster and faster right through the park and into the street, and then the person who drove turned around and nodded pleasantly to Duncan, just as if they were acquainted with each other, but whenever Duncan wished to loosen the cord he had used to bind himself to the sledge, the driver nodded again, so Duncan stopped trying to free himself, and they drove out through the town gate.

Now the snow began to fall, so heavily that the young man could not see a hand's breadth before him, but still they drove on. His skates broke on the uneven ground, and he was forced now to run after the sledge until his legs and lungs threatened to give out; he fought to unbind his wrist so that the large sled might go on without him, but it was of no use, the cord held fast, and away they went like the wind. When his gloves were torn off and the rope had rubbed his wrist raw, he cried at last for help, but nobody heard him; still the snow beat upon him, and the sledge flew onwards. Every now and then it gave a jump as if it were going over hedges and ditches. Duncan was afraid, and tried to cry Methos's name, but it slipped away from him, and all he could remember was the beautiful symmetry of the snowflakes under his burning-glass.

Then, all around him, the snowflakes became larger and larger until he saw that they were not snowflakes at all, but an army of white wolves whose fur glistened with ice crystals, running beside the sledge. All at once they sprang to one side, wicked teeth flashing, and the great sledge slid to a halt. The person who had driven it rose to her feet. The fur and the cap, which were made entirely of snow, fell off, and he saw the woman who had stood at his window that night in the snow, tall and regal with her chestnut hair and white skin, and her pale green eyes like chips of ice.

It was the Snow Queen.

"Don't be afraid, Duncan," said she. "You are the one I have sought for so long. Don't you know that you're safe with me?"

"How do you know my name?" he asked, surprised that he had the courage to speak at all.

At that, she smiled kindly. "Who else was born on the winter solstice? Come, sit with me under the furs. You'll soon be warm enough." As before, he felt strangely compelled to do as she said, and he went and sat beside her in the sledge. As she wrapped the fur around his shoulders, he felt as though he were sinking into a snowdrift.

"Are you still cold?" she asked, as she kissed him on the forehead, then on the cheek. Her kiss was colder than ice. Those caresses went quite through to his heart, which was already almost a lump of ice; he felt as if he were going to die, but only for a moment. He soon felt quite well again and no longer noticed the cold around him.

"You look beautiful," he said wonderingly, for now he could hardly look at anything else but her beauty. The Snow Queen kissed him again, and by this time he had forgotten Methos, and home, and all those he had ever loved.

"Now you must have no more kisses," she said lightly, "or I should kiss you to death."

Duncan gazed at her, and saw that she was so beautiful, he could not imagine a more lovely and intelligent face; she did not now seem to be made of ice, as she had when he had seen her through his window and she had beckoned to him. In his eyes she was perfect, and he did not even notice as the sledge began once more to cut through the frozen night, though around them a deadly storm blew and wolves with teeth like daggers kept pace. He was well and truly lost under the witch's spell, and he knew no fear.


	3. The Enchanted Cottage

But how fared Methos during Duncan's absence? What had become of Duncan, no one knew, nor could anyone give the slightest information, save for the other young men, who said that he had tied up to a very large sledge which had driven through the street and out at the city's gate. Nobody knew where it had gone. In a few days, the incident was forgotten, and everyone went on with their lives.

Everyone except Methos. He mourned bitterly, even though Duncan had hurt him badly, his grief too great for tears. He knew that Duncan must be dead, that he was drowned in the river that flowed through the center of the city. All winter, he stayed curled up in his bed whenever he could, wishing sometimes that he could cry to ease the taut pressure in his chest, wishing more often that he would simply slip away into death one night while he slept. It didn't seem that there could ever be an end to this pain, so deep did it go, and he wished that he'd never known what it was like to love someone, if this was what it felt like to lose them.

But at last spring arrived, the rays of warm sunshine coming in at the window, urging him to get up from the bed and live again. For days he resisted, hoping that if he went long enough without eating, eventually Death would come for him. At last, though, he was forced to admit that it wasn't going to happen, and one day when he looked out of the window he saw the small green stem of a rosebush poking up out of the dirt in his window box, trying its best to grow in the pale spring sunlight.

Feeling guilty about his neglect of his roses, Methos got up at last and padded out onto the balcony with the watering pot. Upon closer inspection, he saw that there were several tiny green shoots struggling up through the earth, and so, grudgingly, he watered them, and then sat in the sun for a while, watching the window across the way and remembering the first time he'd seen Duncan standing there, the sadness in his eyes and the way his voice had felt like a caress. At last he drew a deep breath, and to his surprise, a little of his despair had lifted.

"Duncan is dead and gone," he said aloud, trying the words on for size.

But, _I don't believe it,_ the sunshine seemed to insist.

"He is dead and gone," he said to the swallows that were busy building new nests under the eaves.

 _We don't believe it,_ they seemed to say, glancing at him reproachfully, and at last Methos began to doubt it himself.

"I will put on my new hiking boots," he decided presently, "the ones Duncan bought for me, and then I will go down to the river and see what there is to see."

It was still quite early when he put on his boots and went alone out of the town gates toward the river. When he reached the riverbank, it seemed to Methos that the sound of the current against the abutments of the old bridge might have been the voice of the river, whispering and murmuring to itself, and so he thought it couldn't hurt to try reasoning with it.

"Is it true that you have taken my friend away from me?" he said to the river. "I will give you my new boots if you will give him back to me." And it seemed as if the waves nodded to him in a strange manner. Perhaps, he thought, he had at last gone mad, and he was not as alarmed at this idea as he perhaps should have been. If this were madness, it was better than the grief and despair that had gripped him all winter. So, Methos took off his wonderfully comfortable boots, the last gift Duncan had given to him, and threw them both into the river.

Unfortunately, they fell near the bank, and the waves carried them back to land, as if the river would not take his offering because it could not bring Duncan back. But then Methos was gripped with doubt, and thought, though perhaps somewhat irrationally, that the boots had not been thrown out far enough. He spotted a boat that lay among the reeds, and he climbed and slid down the bank, pulling the sodden boots from the mud and stepping into the boat. Then he balanced his long, bare feet on the center of the keel and made his way carefully to the opposite end of the boat, flinging the boots as hard as he could toward the center of the river.

The boat, it turned out, was not moored, and the force of his throw sent it gliding away from the land. When Methos realized he was floating free, he hastened to reach the end of the boat, but before he could do so it was more than a yard from the bank, and the current had caught it. The boat spun beneath him, and he was forced to crouch down in the bottom and hang on, or be thrown into the water.

Methos was not terribly fond of boats under the best of circumstances, and he was realizing now that the river's waters were very high indeed, swollen from the spring rains and the snowmelt upriver. His boat, he also began to realize, was very small, and not particularly sound; it seemed to be leaking a bit at the seams, though not too badly yet, and it also seemed to be hurtling along at quite an alarming rate of speed. Trying to tell himself that he was not at all troubled by this situation, he decided the best thing to do would be to keep his weight low and centered in the boat, and go wherever it took him, at least for the time being.

After a while, when the initial fear of drowning had passed, Methos noticed that the banks on either side of the river were actually rather pretty. The green fields had given way to rolling hills, upon which carpets of brilliantly colored wildflowers alternated with thick copses of trees. Here and there he spotted a deer or rabbit, but not a single person did he see.

The river widened eventually, and the current's rush became not quite so violent or alarming, though it carried him ever onward; when he was sure the boat would not overturn, and that the seams would hold after all, he found that the steady motion was actually quite soothing, and presently he began to get sleepy. He lay down in the bottom of the boat and watched the clouds pass by against the blue sky, and sometimes the dappled play of sunlight through the arching branches of trees. _Perhaps the river will carry me to Duncan,_ he thought wistfully, and with that comforting thought, he fell asleep.

When he woke again, the boat must have been sailing on like that for hours, for his nose was sunburned, and the sun was low in the sky. He sat up and looked around. This stretch of the river seemed to run through a great cherry orchard, and the trees were full of blossoms, their fragrance filling the air. He had just drawn a deep breath of that sweet odor when something caught his attention on the far bank, and he realized he wasn't alone.

A man was riding along the bank beside the boat, keeping pace with it on his horse.

For a moment, Methos was alarmed. The man was rather fearsome in appearance, with a great sword strapped to his back and a crossbow slung across the back of his saddle, and his face was badly scarred. A huntsman, Methos thought, and he was just beginning to consider his chances of slipping over the edge of the boat and swimming for the opposite shore when the huntsman looked his way, and smiled.

The expression did not much ease Methos' mind, since it made the huntsman look, if anything, more fearsome, but he did notice that the man's eyes were a startlingly gentle, clear shade of blue. Since he stood little chance of escape now that the huntsman was watching him, and since he was really very tired of this leaky old boat, he decided to take a chance.

"Hello!" he called to the huntsman, trying to sound braver than he felt. "Do you think there is any way you might help me off this river? I've no oars, I'm afraid."

"There's a bridge up ahead," the huntsman called back. "When you see it, see if you can stand up in the boat, and I'll pull you out."

The voice was surprisingly mild, and very cultured, and Methos was somewhat reassured. The huntsman spurred his horse forward, outpacing the boat. Far ahead, Methos saw him draw up and jump to the ground, striding out onto an old wooden bridge that stretched across the river. When the boat drew near, Methos balanced carefully on the gunwales, and reached up; the hand that closed around his wrist was strong, callused, and unexpectedly warm, and together he and the huntsman managed to lever him clear of the boat. With the other man's help, he scrambled up onto the bridge.

When he stood at last on solid ground, he turned to thank the huntsman and was startled to realize that the man was considerably shorter than he was. Such had been the strength that had pulled him up, he had assumed a man of much greater stature. "Thank you," he said, as he caught his breath.

"Don't mention it," the huntsman said with a grin, and Methos saw now that under the scar, his face was actually rather pleasing, in a curious way, though no one would have called him handsome. Not like Duncan was handsome.

His sadness must have shown in his face, for the huntsman's grin faded, and he said, "How did you come to be trapped on the river, anyway? You look as though you came quite a long way in that boat."

"It's a long story," Methos said. "I shouldn't trouble you further—"

"Nonsense," said the huntsman, and put his hand possessively on Methos' shoulder. "My house isn't far from here. Come home with me; I'll find you something to eat, and you can tell me all about it."

The huntsman took him to his cottage, which indeed wasn't far at all. It was small, but clean and neat, with a thatched roof that smelled of sweet hay and a garden in which vegetables, herbs, and flowers grew, and Methos thought that a man who would live in such a pleasant little house couldn't be all bad, and he began to relax. Then, too, he was very hungry, and when the huntsman brought him a bowl of venison stew and a thick slice of cheese, he ate it gratefully. After, when his belly was full and he was rested, he found himself telling the huntsman everything.

The other man listened thoughtfully, and made interested and sympathetic noises. It was surprisingly easy to talk to him, and when he was finished, Methos felt as though a weight had been lifted from him. "You haven't seen him, have you?" he asked at last, hardly daring to hope. "My Duncan? He hasn't passed by this way?"

"No, I'm afraid he hasn't," said the huntsman regretfully. "But he's bound to, eventually. Everyone passes my door sooner or later. The river sees to that."

Feeling better, Methos nodded. "I don't even know your name," he said finally, embarrassed at how he had taken advantage of a stranger's kindness.

"I'm Kronos," the huntsman said, with that smile that was not quite reassuring, but that Methos found intriguing nonetheless. "Come, brother, you mustn't fret. Your friend will surely turn up any day now. In the meantime, stay and hunt with me. What do you say?" Methos realized that his new friend lived a somewhat solitary existence here, and that perhaps he was lonely. It was a feeling Methos knew well. It didn't seem so much to ask, for the generosity he'd been shown, to stay for a little while. And so he agreed.

That night the moonlight shone through the high windows of the little cottage, and Methos woke from a nightmare he couldn't remember to find Kronos sitting on the edge of his bed, stroking his hair soothingly. The touch was disturbing in some way he couldn't have explained, and yet Methos found himself strangely unable to pull away.

"I have waited a long time for a dear brother like you," Kronos whispered softly to him in the darkness, his touch as possessive as it had been by the river, both gentle and frightening—for Kronos had a drop of the fey blood, which gave him some ability to charm a man or beast if he so desired. Up till now, he'd used his talents only to coax the boar or bear to his blade when necessary. But his talent was enough to keep Methos, and keep him he would. "You'll see, Methos. You're like me. And now you'll stay, and we'll hunt together, and everything will be perfect." All the while he was combing his fingers through Methos' hair, and Methos found that he couldn't quite remember why he'd left home in the first place, the memory slippery and elusive as a fish. In the end, he slept, the huntsman's hand heavy on his shoulder.

The next day, and for many days afterward, Kronos and Methos rode out on the hunt together, and if Methos noticed that sometimes their quarry fell a little too readily to Kronos' bow or blade, he didn't think much of that. This was beautiful wooded country, green and fragrant and full of life, and they ate splendidly and had a grand time exploring the forests that seemed to stretch further in every direction than a man could ride in a day. Sometimes Methos would find himself taken by an unexplained melancholy, but when that happened Kronos would cheer him up by bullying or coaxing or cajoling him out of his mood, and life would go on as before.

In this way, spring turned to summer, and then to autumn, and finally the snows came. When this happened, Kronos turned to trapping hare and hunting elk for their dinner, and they did not ride out so much. And on the long winter days in the cottage, waiting for Kronos to return, Methos would sometimes find himself thinking odd thoughts about frost on window panes, and long walks in the snow. Always before he could quite puzzle out where these thoughts came from, Kronos would return home, and he would forget such troubling thoughts and welcome his brother with teasing and sly jokes, in the manner he'd always done.

It was only when spring came again, and he stepped outside to feel the first warm rays of the sun on his face, that his restlessness returned, and this time it would not be assuaged by any of Kronos' coaxing or bullying. He began to question Kronos about what lay beyond the edge of the forest, and why they always must turn back before they reached it. And at last, weary of his constant entreaties, Kronos gave in and said that he might ride to the very edge of the forest, if they rode together. Kronos was silent and sullen that day, and Methos could not tell if he was angry or sad, but Kronos said nothing and only rode with him to the place where the forest ended at low walls that bordered cultivated pastureland, neatly plowed fields rolling away as far as the eye could see. And along the stone wall that divided the farmland from the forest, wild roses grew, a tangle of pink and crimson blooms and thorny stems.

This, of course, was what Kronos had not wished him to see, for no sooner did Methos see the roses and smell their sweet perfume than memory came flooding back.

"Oh, no," Methos breathed, stricken, realizing how he had abandoned his search. And he looked to Kronos, understanding at last how he had been ensorceled, but Kronos only raised his chin defiantly and refused to show remorse.

"Can you say you weren't happy, when you were with me?" he demanded. But before Methos could answer, his grieved and accusing expression must have answered for him, for Kronos snarled angrily, wheeling his horse around and disappearing into the forest. Methos felt a pang of regret, for he understood very well indeed what loneliness could do to a man, but his heart was too full of anguish and dread at the thought of what might have befallen Duncan in the year he had wasted in the forest.

"Oh, Duncan. How could I have forgotten you?" he whispered, running his hands over the wild roses, heedless of the way the thorns pricked his skin, remembering the softness of dark hair when he'd held Duncan as he'd wept that night, so long ago. "Now I'll never know if you're dead, or alive somewhere, believing I abandoned you." Heart clenched with grief and remorse, he knelt beside the crumbling wall and wept himself, despairing of ever learning what had become of his dear friend.

His warm tears fell on the soft earth, and he was startled to see the roses uncurl their leaves as if in gratitude for the moisture. The leaves and blossoms made soft, rustling sounds in the breeze, and they seemed to whisper to him, _No, he is not dead. We have been in the ground where all the dead lie, but your friend is not there._

"Thank you," said Methos, startled, relief blooming in his heart. "Can you tell me what has become of him, then?"

But the roses said no more, if in fact they had spoken at all; still, hope had returned, and Methos wiped his face and got to his feet. He had lost his boots to the river, and he would not take the horse that had belonged to Kronos, so he set off across the fields of freshly turned earth in his bare feet. Three times he looked back, fearing that the huntsman had changed his mind and decided to come after him, but no one seemed to be following him.

For a fortnight he ran, ever further from the lands he knew. Each time he thought he could run no longer and sank down onto a stone to rest, he would look around and the advance of spring would remind him of how much time he had lost. Then he would leap to his feet again and press onward, determined not to let hunger or weariness or the bleeding of his feet stop him from finding his friend.


	4. The Raven and the Highland Prince

Much later, when Methos had reached the northern country, where there was snow on the ground almost year round, there came a cold and blustery afternoon when he was obliged once more to rest. It had been two days since he'd had anything to eat, and he thought that maybe he would lie down on the ground for a while. It would be so easy to just lie down and wait for the snow to fall and cover him in a blanket of warm silence and oblivion.

Somewhere in the months since he had left Kronos' forest, the unwelcome idea had occurred to him that perhaps he was partly responsible for the fate that had befallen Duncan, that if only he had spoken sooner, trusted Duncan more, none of this would have happened. Such thoughts kept him going when nothing else could, when faith and hope deserted him and he was certain that Duncan must be dead, or lost to him forever; they kept him going now, when every aching muscle argued that he should just drop where he was and not get up again.

Just opposite the place where he sat, willing himself to get up, a great black raven came hopping toward him across the snow. The raven stood looking at him for some time, until at last Methos said, "Well, if you're going to pluck out my eyes and eat them, please get on with it, for I'm tired and have a long way yet to go."

The raven shook his head and said, "Not today, not today." He pronounced the words as plainly as he could, because he meant to be kind, and then he asked where Methos was going all alone in the wide world.

Because he was so tired, and near the end of his strength, Methos found himself once more telling the story of his adventures to a stranger. When he had finished, he asked, without much hope, "Have you by chance seen my friend?"

The raven nodded thoughtfully and said, "Perhaps I have—it may be."

Hope sparked once more in Methos' weary spirit, and he leaned forward, seizing the raven's glossy wing. "Don't toy with me now. Do you really think you have?"

"Gently, gently," said the raven. "I believe I know. I think it may be your friend. But if it is, by this time he has certainly forgotten you for the princess."

At this, Methos' heart sank; it was too close to the kind of fear he'd held for a long time, but hadn't really admitted before now. Still, if it meant that Duncan was safe and well, he would learn to live with it. "Does he live with a princess, then?" he asked as casually as he could.

"Yes, listen," replied the raven, "but it is so difficult to speak your language. If you understood the raven's tongue, then I could explain it better. Do you?"

"No, I have never learnt it," said Methos regretfully, "but I'm very good with languages. Do the best you can, and I will do my best to understand you."

"Very well," answered the raven, and in a mix of French, English, and his own language, he told Methos what he knew. "In this kingdom there lives a princess, who is so wonderfully clever that she has read all the newspapers in the world, and forgotten them, too."

"Doesn't sound like the sharpest knife in the drawer to me," Methos said dryly, but the raven sagely ignored him.

"A short time ago," the bird went on, "as she was sitting on her throne, she determined to marry if she could find a husband who knew what to say when he was spoken to, and not one who could only look grand, for that is so tiresome. Then she assembled all her ladies-in-waiting, and when they heard of her intentions, they were very much pleased. You may believe that every word I tell you is true," the raven added, "for I have a tame sweetheart who goes freely about the palace, and she told me all this."

Of course his sweetheart was a raven, Methos knew, for 'birds of a feather flock together,' and one raven always chooses another.

"Proclamations were sent out immediately," the bird continued, "with a border of gold filigree and the initials of the princess woven in silver thread. They gave notice that every young man fair of countenance was free to visit the castle and speak with the princess, and those who could show themselves to be intelligent when spoken to were to make themselves quite at home at the palace, but the one who spoke best would be chosen as a husband for the princess. Yes, yes, you may believe me, it is all as true as I sit here," insisted the raven.

Methos only nodded and didn't contradict him.

"The people came in crowds," the raven went on. "There was a great deal of pushing and jostling, but no one succeeded either on the first or second day. They could all speak very well while they were outside in the streets, but when they entered the palace gates, and saw the guards in their silver uniforms and the footmen in their golden livery on the staircase, and the great halls lit up, they became quite flustered. When they stood before the throne on which the princess sat, they could do nothing but repeat the last words she had said—and she had no particular wish to hear her own words over again. It was just as if they had all been struck dumb while they were in the palace, for as soon as they were back out they could talk fast enough. There was a regular procession."

"But what of Duncan?" said Methos, trying to be patient and understanding now why he didn't often talk to ravens. "Was he amongst the crowd?"

"Stop a bit, I'm just coming to him. It was on the third day, there came striding along to the palace a most handsome personage, without horses or carriage, with a most pleasing burr in his accent. He had beautiful long hair, but his clothes were very poor."

It did, Methos had to admit, sound like Duncan. And a part of him was hopeful, while another part of him almost wished he had been disappointed, for if it were Duncan the raven had seen, then he was married now and had surely forgotten Methos. "Perhaps my search has ended," he said, trying to be more pleased than he felt and surprised to learn that his quest to find his friend was not quite so selfless or simple a desire as he had believed.

"He had a sword strapped to his back," added the raven.

"No, it must have been the blades of his skates you saw," said Methos. "He was carrying them when he left."

"It may have been so," said the raven. "I did not look at it very closely. But I know from my tame sweetheart that he passed through the palace gates, saw the guards in their silver uniforms and the servants in their liveries of gold on the stairs, but he was not in the least intimidated. 'It must be very tiresome to stand on the stairs,' he said. 'I prefer to go in.' The rooms were blazing with light. Councilors and ambassadors walked about in satin slippers, carrying golden vessels. It was enough to make anyone feel overwhelmed. His boots creaked loudly as he walked, and yet he was not at all uneasy."

"It must be Duncan," said Methos, feeling a little faint. "I know he had new boots on. He bought a pair for each of us."

"They really did creak," said the raven, "yet he went boldly up to the princess herself. All the ladies of the court were present with their maids, and all the cavaliers with their servants. Each of the maids had another maid to wait upon her, and the cavaliers' servants had their own servants, as well as a page each. They all stood in circles round the princess, and the nearer they stood to the door, the prouder they looked. The servants' pages, who always wore slippers, could hardly be looked at, they held themselves up so proudly."

"Sounds positively dreadful," said Methos under his breath, and then louder, "but tell me, did Duncan win the princess?"

"If I were not a raven, and already engaged, I would have married him myself. He did not come to woo her, he said, but to hear her wisdom; and he was as pleased with her as she was with him."

And Methos remembered the ease with which Duncan had spoken to those pretty young women in the street, and found it all too easy to envision the scene as the raven described it.

"Will you take me to the palace?" he asked at last, knowing that he would not be able to rest until he had seen Duncan with his own eyes and spoken to him.

"It's an easy enough thing to ask me that," replied the raven, "but how are we to manage it? I must tell you it will be very difficult to gain permission for a poor traveler like you to enter the palace."

"Duncan will come out and meet me when he hears that I have come," Methos insisted, though he was not half so sure as he sounded.

"I will speak about it to my tame sweetheart, and ask her advice," said the raven. "Wait for me here." And with that he flew away toward the palace.

It was late in the evening and very cold out by the time the raven returned. "My beloved sends you greeting, and here is a roll which she took from the kitchen for you." Faint with hunger, Methos took the bread and ate it as slowly as he could; even so, it did not last long. "It's impossible for you to go in at the gate," the raven warned. "The guards and servants wouldn't allow it. But worry not, we will manage to get you in. My sweetheart knows a back staircase that leads to the sleeping apartments, and she knows where to find the key."

They came onto the palace grounds along a great, wide avenue lined with fir trees, the snow glistening like diamonds; wherever Methos stepped, he left crimson footprints, and he was obliged to go very slowly indeed, for his feet were nearly frozen through. The raven led Methos not to the gate, but to the kitchen door, which stood ajar, and Methos couldn't help the way his heart pounded, his stomach twisted up into a knot of anxiety and longing. He was afraid of what he would find when he looked into Duncan's eyes, but at the same time the thought of being able to see him again made him feel weak with hope. "It must be him," he said to himself, "with that long hair and the burr in his voice, and that charm that can win even a princess. It must be." He tried not to let himself hope for too much as the raven hopped up the narrow stairs ahead of him, but he couldn't help the fantasy that played itself out in his thoughts. Couldn't help imagining that Duncan would embrace him, those dark eyes full of sadness and remorse for the way they had parted. That when Duncan learned how far Methos had come for his sake, his eyes would glisten and he would say Methos' name with love and relief that they were safe and together once more, princesses notwithstanding.

In a small closet at the top of the stairs, a lamp was burning. On the landing stood the tame raven, turning her head from side to side, and gazing at Methos, who bowed as gallantly as he could, feeling it was the thing to do.

"My betrothed has spoken so very highly of you, sir," said the tame raven. "Your story is most touching. If you will take the lamp, I will show you the way."

"You are very kind to take this risk for me," Methos said, but the raven only shook her head and ruffled her feathers, as if pleased.

They came then into a great hall, the walls of which were hung with rose-colored satin embroidered with flowers. At length, they reached a bedchamber, even more splendid than the rose-colored hall. The ceiling was like a great palm tree, with glass leaves of the most costly crystal, and over the center of the floor, two beds, each resembling a lily, hung from a stem of gold. One, in which the princess lay, was white; the other was red, and Methos' heart was beating very hard indeed as he went toward this one, seeking to look on the prince's sleeping countenance and see if it was, indeed, Duncan.

He pushed one of the red leaves aside, and his eyes fell upon soft, dark hair spread across the pillow. Then he saw a strong hand, curled lightly against the bedclothes. Turned away from him, the handsome face was still in repose—but it was not Duncan's face. Another young man lay there, asleep, and it was only in his dark hair and strong hands that he looked like Duncan at all. It must have been the involuntary sound of disappointment Methos made that woke him, for the prince sat up abruptly and gasped with surprise to see a stranger bending over him.

At that, the princess woke as well, and looked out of her white lily-bed to ask what was the matter.

Feeling as though he might weep from sheer weariness, Methos begged forgiveness of the prince and princess and started to go, but the prince laid a hand against his arm and urged him to sit on the edge of the bed. "Please," he said, "stay and tell us what you're doing here. I can see that you have traveled a long way, and that you are near the end of your strength." And his voice did, indeed, sound like Duncan's, deep and velvety with compassion and that faint, pleasing burr Methos missed so much. "Perhaps we can help," the prince added, and his kindness was almost more than Methos could bear.

For the second time that day, Methos found himself telling his story. When he was finished he made a plea on the ravens' behalf, for they had tried so hard to help him, and he did not wish to see them punished.

"Indeed not," said the prince and princess; then they praised the ravens, and said they were not angry for what they had done, and that they had done the right thing. The princess later rewarded them with a fixed appointment to the court for each of them. She had always been rather fond of ravens.

When the birds had gone, the prince got out of his bed and told Methos that he should lie down and rest, for he could plainly go no farther that night.

"Your Highness, you have already shown me more kindness than I deserve," Methos protested, though his body ached for the comfort of that soft-looking bed.

"Nonsense," said the prince, smiling a crooked smile not unlike Duncan's own. "Sleep now. We'll talk in the morning. And call me Connor," he insisted, gesturing again for Methos to take his bed.

Methos had not the strength to resist, and so he lay down in the prince's bed and was asleep almost before his head touched the pillow. It was the first time he had been able to sleep in safety and comfort in many months, and that night he dreamed of a rose garden where all the blooms were carved out of snow, and the thorns were made of icicles, and at the heart of the garden Duncan sat beside a chess board; he didn't smile when he saw Methos, but only nodded, as if he'd been waiting for him.

The following day he was dressed from head to foot in silk and velvet. Connor and Amanda invited him to stay at the palace for a few days and enjoy himself, but Methos asked only for a pair of boots and a reliable horse so that he might go back out into the wide world to search for Duncan. He obtained not only boots, but also a warm peacoat, and when he was dressed and ready to go, he found at the door a white gelding with a raven crest upon his headstall and a wallet of foodstuffs behind the saddle. Touched by the kindness of the prince and princess, Methos had to pretend to tighten the laces of his boots for a minute, until he was able to kiss the princess farewell and shake the prince's hand without embarrassing himself.

The ravens accompanied him for the first few miles, and it was not until they, too, stopped and said their farewells that Methos was truly alone again.


	5. The Giant in the Woods

Methos rode through a thick forest, where the gold on his mount's bridle and saddle glinted in the moonlight and dazzled the eyes of some robbers, who could not bear to let him pass unmolested.

"It's gold! It's gold!" they cried, rushing forward and seizing the horse by the reins. Their leader was a filthy, vicious cur of a man, who had shaved his head until his hair stood up in a shock, not unlike a cock's comb. He and his men seized Methos and dragged him off the frightened gelding, and though he fought with all his strength, Methos was far outnumbered, and they had him bleeding on the ground before they were done.

"Look how pretty he is," the leader of the robbers said, baring his teeth in a most frightful grin and licking his lips. "He's thin, but his flesh is pale and tender. If we stuff him with nuts and berries, just think how nice he will taste!" And as he said this, he drew forth a shining knife that glittered in the moonlight. But before he could cut Methos' throat, he made a grunt of pain, for he had a giant he had made a pet of; the giant was still quite wild, and had bitten him fiercely on the ear. The robber struck out and scored a glancing blow against the giant's nose, and the giant fell back, growling ominously; in the excitement, the robber forgot about killing Methos.

"I want to keep him," said the giant insistently, for he had a great many animals that he had collected here and there, and he kept them all in cages and fed them when he remembered to. "He will give me his coat, and read me stories, for he looks very wise." A thoughtful look came over his simple features, and he said to Methos, "Can you read?"

"Oh, yes," said Methos, holding his nose, which was bleeding, and he feared, possibly broken. He knew an opportunity when he saw one. "I know a great many stories, and I will tell them all to you, you can be sure."

The giant smiled with pleasure and nodded, satisfied. "You see, Caspian?" And the leader of the robbers was not pleased, but secretly he was a bit afraid of his giant, and rather than let his men see that, he acquiesced grudgingly and let Silas (for that was the giant's name) drag the finely-dressed traveler off to his lair by the scruff.

Silas hauled Methos cheerfully, if rather carelessly, over stumps and stones, into the depths of the forest. Methos grunted at the bruising blows he received but did his best to keep up, quite certain that he was better off with the simple giant rather than the other robbers. When they reached Silas' lair, a deep cave cut into a cliff by a glacier some years before, Methos saw the rows and rows of cages. In each cage was an animal, some of every shape and variety. Most of them were alive, which he took as a good sign.

"You look hungry," said Silas critically, eyeing Methos by the smoky light of the peat fire that burned near the entrance of the cave.

"No, not really, thanks," said Methos, for although he was quite hungry indeed, he had a suspicion about what sort of meat the robbers ate.

Silas shrugged. "Suit yourself." He sat down beside the fire and picked up a small piece of wood, upon which he began to carve absently. "Don't worry, I'll not let them kill you, as long as you don't vex me," he said amiably. "Now, sit down and tell me a story."

And so Methos sat down, and presently he began to tell the giant the story of his adventures thus far in the wide world. The giant seemed particularly interested in hearing about the huntsman, and so Methos elaborated on that part, talking until he was nearly hoarse, and morning had come.

"Ah," Silas sighed with contentment, when he was done. "You are a fine storyteller, indeed. In fact, I shan't let the others kill you even if you do vex me—I'll do it myself."

"How comforting," Methos said , stifling a yawn.

"It's the least I can do," said Silas, oblivious to the finer points of irony. "Come, we sleep by day here. I've a soft bed of furs at the back of this cave. Lie down with me and rest, and tonight you can tell me another story." And in spite of the smell, which was quite appalling, the furs were indeed soft and warm, and Methos found sleep did not come as slowly as he'd thought it would.

In the evening when he woke, Silas had a cauldron of stew on the fire, and it smelled so good that Methos dared to look in the pot; he was relieved to see it was rabbit stew and ate as much as he could hold. He learned that Silas' cages held all manner of fantastic beasts, doves and bobcats and deer, and even an eagle. Methos made friends with most of these, and as the days passed, he did his best to make sure that everyone had enough to eat. It was only the wolves that gave him pause, and he stayed as far from them as he could, pushing food in through the bars of their cages with a long stick. Still, he couldn't help identifying with the poor beasts, for he was no less a prisoner than they. If he tried to escape, and Silas or the robbers caught him, they would eat him for sure.

The saddest creature in Silas' collection was a great, majestic bull reindeer the giant had imprisoned and forced to wear a bright copper collar tight around his neck. Silas explained that reindeer were very wild creatures indeed, and that the bull surely would have kicked his way out of his cage by now if Silas didn't tickle his neck every evening with a sharp blade, which frightened him very much. This Silas demonstrated, drawing a long-handled, wickedly sharp battle ax from a gap in the wall and letting the blade slide gently over the reindeer's neck. The poor animal began to kick, and the giant laughed, and threw an arm around Methos' shoulders.

This struck Methos as unbearably cruel, but he said nothing, only stroked the reindeer's nose when Silas wasn't looking. "Come to bed now, Methos," the giant said heartily, "the sun is nearly up."

"Will you have that ax with you while you're asleep?" Methos asked, feeling rather alarmed.

"I always sleep with my ax nearby," said the giant. "No one knows what may happen. But now tell me again all about your friend, and why you went out into the world."

Then Methos had no choice but to repeat his story over again, though tonight it made his heart hurt to think of Duncan and those long ago days in their little garden high above the city. When he reached the part of the story where his tears had fallen on the ground beside the wild roses, he had to stop for a minute and draw a few deep breaths; luckily, Silas was snoring already, and so he wasn't vexed.

Methos closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep then, but he could feel the gentle bite of the ax blade pressing against his thigh, and he wondered whether he would get out of this place alive after all. Outside, a twig snapped, and he lay awake listening, his body cold with fear and growing despair. What was he doing in this place? Duncan must surely be long dead now. What good would it do to get himself killed, as well? Would that bring Duncan back? He'd be much better off trying to kill Silas and escape, and forget about Duncan. He was fooling himself, anyway. Duncan had stopped loving him months before he'd disappeared. Why couldn't he seem to accept that?

"I've seen your friend, you know," a voice said softly in the gray morning light.

Methos' eyes flew open. Silas snored away happily beside him; it was not he who had spoken. His eyes fell upon the reindeer, with his great, sad, liquid gaze. The reindeer was watching him steadily.

"Tell me that was you," said Methos, thinking that perhaps this time he really had gone mad.

The reindeer nodded wearily. "Yes, I've seen your friend, the one you call Duncan. He rode in the sledge of the Snow Queen, which drove through the wood while we were grazing there. She blew upon us, and we were frozen where we stood; all my brothers and sisters died, and I would have, too, if the giant hadn't found me and imprisoned me here."

Methos' heart had begun to beat very fast. "Where was the Snow Queen going? Do you know what she wanted with Duncan?"

"She was most likely traveling to Lapland, where there is always snow and ice. She has her summer castle there, but her stronghold is at the North Pole, on the icecap."

For the first time, Methos felt that he was a step closer to learning his friend's true fate. "Tell me you are not just toying with me," he pleaded. "Tell me you speak the truth."

"I have no reason to lie," the reindeer said. "Besides, you were kind to me earlier."

"Duncan," whispered Methos to himself, closing his eyes and wishing that he could feel Duncan's heart beating against his.

"Lie still," Silas grumbled in his sleep, "or I shall bury my ax in your neck."

The next day, while Silas was asleep, Methos crept from the bed of furs and brought the reindeer several handfuls of sweet dried leaves, then stroked the beast's head while he ate. "Do you know where Lapland is?" Methos asked when the reindeer was finished.

"Who should know better than I do?" said the animal, while his eyes shone with some renewed life. "I was born and raised there, and used to run about on the snow-covered plains." Then he looked sidelong at Methos, cajoling. "If you were to free me, I could take you there fast as you please."

"I wish I could," Methos said, "but even if we could get away from the giant, we would have to get past the robbers as well."

"Well, perhaps you will find a way," the reindeer said, and then lay down in the bottom of his cage and said no more.

"We know where the Snow Queen's stronghold is," one of the wolves said, grinning fiercely. Her yellow eyes gleamed out of the darkness of her cage. "Free us, and we will guide you to your friend." But Methos knew better than to trust a wolf, and he said nothing to her, creeping back to the furs at the back of the cave before the giant could wake and notice him gone.

The wolf had given him an idea, though. All day while Silas slept beside him, Methos lay awake and thought about how he might get free and find his way to the Snow Queen's hold. For the first time since he had set out on his journey so long ago, he felt as though Duncan were close, perhaps only a few weeks' journey from here.

And so, a few nights later, when Silas was admiring his pets, feeding them scraps and tormenting them fondly, Methos drew a deep breath and gathered his courage. "You know, I've noticed," he commented casually, "that some of your animals seem to be a bit worse for wear, caged up against their natures as they are."

Silas frowned. "Do you really think so? They seem all right to me."

Methos shrugged, as if he weren't afraid. "How could they be? They weren't meant to live in cages. They're dying, Silas. Can't you see that?"

Silas looked again, and now he had to admit that the eagle had lost quite a few feathers, and the bobcats' coats had grown very dull since he'd brought them home with him. And he saw that Methos was right; many of his pets were near their end.

"I mean, look at these wolves," Methos said, stepping much closer to the wolf cages than he really liked. "They look as though a breeze might blow them over, they're so thin." Now this was an outright lie, for Methos had been stealing good meat scraps from the soup pot for days, feeding them to the wolves to build up their strength. But the giant had no guile in him, and as Methos had hoped, he came over to the wolf cages, a worried frown on his broad, ugly face.

When the giant was very close to the cages indeed, Methos sprang into motion, swinging himself up on top of the largest cage and pulling the pin that held the door, freeing the great she-wolf from her captivity. In a flash he had freed the other wolves, and from the safety of his vantage point, he saw the melee begin. Snarling, the wolves sprang free of their cages; with a roar, and a look of wounded betrayal at Methos, Silas went for his ax and began to swing, and the battle was on. More than a little terrified of the flashing blade and rending teeth, Methos scrambled over the tops of the cages until he reached the reindeer's enclosure. He unlocked the door and the bull rushed out, the great spread of his antlers nearly as wide across as the cage; Methos jumped down from the roof onto his back, and the reindeer leapt past the wolves and the giant in two great bounds. In a moment they were outside, plunging through the deep snow banks.

"Free! We're free!" the reindeer panted joyfully as he ran, but Methos clamped his hand over the furry muzzle, trying to shush him.

"Not yet," he hissed. "We've still got the robbers to get past." But his warning came too late—already the alarm was sounding, figures shouting and running through the trees.

To Methos' dismay, the robbers' leader appeared directly in their path, snarling, and nearly took Methos' head off with a vicious swing of his cutlass; the reindeer was forced to wheel around and race back the way they had come, Caspian close on his heels. On level ground the bull would have outpaced the brute in a heartbeat, but in the trees, he was forced to go carefully to avoid catching his antlers in the branches, and they barely stayed ahead of wicked, curved blade. The reindeer soon began to tire, and Methos feared his weight would cost the beast his life.

Just as he was beginning to think they were lost, the reindeer reared up unexpectedly and dodged to one side, unseating him. Methos flew into a snow bank and landed with a grunt, but he barely had time to think about whether he'd been hurt; when he saw what had frightened the beast, a cold fist seized his heart.

The giant had appeared out of the trees, covered in the wolves' blood, brandishing that terrible ax of his. He was the most terrifying thing Methos had ever seen. Before he could scramble to his feet and try to run, the giant's ax swung downward in a killing arc—and fell upon the robber, cleaving him in two from collarbone to belly, killing him instantly.

For a long moment, Methos was transfixed by the dreadful sight. Then the robber sank to the ground, and the ax with him; Methos thought the giant would lift the ax again, but Silas let it fall, watching his master's body crumble under the terrible weight of his blow. Caspian's body came to rest in the snow and moved no more.

"You saved me," Methos said at last, still not quite able to believe it. "Why?"

But Silas only shook his head, unable to look at him. He was quite frightening in appearance, covered in wolf's blood as he was, but Methos felt sorry for him, then, and wished he might have found another way to escape.

"I will unlock your collar and set you free," Silas said to the reindeer, "so that you may run away to Lapland. But you must make good use of your legs, and carry my storyteller to the castle of the Snow Queen." Then he suited actions to words and removed the reindeer's collar, not seeming surprised when the beast immediately danced backward, out of reach. Methos gentled him and swung up onto his back, afraid that Silas would change his mind.

But the giant unwrapped a bundle and handed it to him, and Methos saw that it was his peacoat, his gift from the prince and princess. "You'll need this," Silas said gruffly, "for it will be very cold." And then, somewhat embarrassed, he added, "I'm afraid the others have already sold your horse."

Methos knew it was much more likely that they had eaten his horse, but he didn't want to upset Silas. "That's all right," he said hastily, anxious to be gone before the other robbers realized what had happened. He hesitated, though, just for a moment. "Silas—"

But the giant was already striding away, his back to Methos, and since there was nothing Methos could say to change what had happened, he turned the reindeer's head northward and urged him forward, blinking against the stinging snow as it began to fall thickly, laying a new carpet of white for their journey.


	6. The Lady of the Lake, or Help from Unexpected Sources

Many days later and far to the north, they stopped at an old, crumbling abbey, beside a lake. It looked quite empty, as though no one could have lived there; the roof was entirely gone, and the walls were made more of holes than wall. They went inside anyway, for both Methos and the reindeer were quite tired and hungry, and were surprised to find a very beautiful woman standing there, as if she'd been waiting for them.

The Lady (for there was no mistaking her for anything else—one had only to notice her alabaster skin, auburn hair, and clear blue eyes to know she was noble-born) smiled when she saw them, and beckoned toward a low, rough, wooden door. Through this door Methos and the reindeer followed her into a cramped tunnel that led into the cellars below the abbey.

At last they reached another door, even smaller than the first, and when this was opened they found themselves in a warm, comfortable chamber hung with velvet draperies. In the center of this room a fire burned brightly on a little hearth, and a teakettle whistled cheerily. It was so warm that the Lady immediately shrugged off her mantle and fur-lined boots, and Methos followed suit, taking off his coat and boots. The reindeer, of course, could not remove his fur coat and was soon panting with the heat, but the Lady brought him a piece of ice to put against his forehead. Then she poured Methos a hot cup of tea with milk and gave them both hot bread and butter to eat.

When they were comfortable, the Lady introduced herself as Rebecca and urged them to tell her what they were doing so far north. Methos was still rather too chilled to speak without his teeth chattering, so the reindeer told his story first, which seemed to him the most important anyway. When he was done, he told Methos' story as well.

"Oh, you poor dears," said the Lady Rebecca with a sigh. "I'm afraid you have a long way to go yet. You must travel more than a hundred miles further, onto the Arctic ice floe. That is where the Snow Queen lives now, in a great palace surrounded by gardens of ice sculptures."

"I wonder if I might ask you something," said the reindeer, who was from that country and had heard of the Lady of the Lake, and therefore knew something of her wisdom and skills. Rebecca's clever blue eyes twinkled, but she said nothing. "You are so clever," said the reindeer. "I know you can tie all the winds of the world with a piece of twine. If a sailor unties one knot, he has a fair wind; when he unties the second, it blows hard; but if the third and fourth are loosened, then comes a storm, which will root up whole forests. Can't you give my friend something which will make him as strong as twelve men, to overcome the Snow Queen?"

"The power of twelve men!" The Lady laughed her beautiful, musical laugh. "That would be of very little use." With that, she went to a shelf and took down a great book, in which were inscribed wonderful characters, and began to read as if she were quite finished talking to them. But the reindeer's soulful eyes begged so hard for Methos' sake that she couldn't help smiling her sad and knowing smile. She drew the reindeer into a corner and whispered to him while she laid a fresh piece of ice on his head. "Duncan really is with the Snow Queen, but you must understand, he finds everything there so much to his taste and his liking that he believes it is the finest place in the world. This is because he has a piece of broken glass in his heart, and a little piece of glass in his eye. These must be taken out, or he will never be human again, and the Snow Queen will retain her power over him."

"But can you not give Methos something to help him conquer this power?" the reindeer whispered pleadingly, for he had become quite fond of his human companion.

"I can give him no greater power than he has already," said the Lady. "Don't you see how strong that is? How men and animals bend to serve him, and how well he has gotten through the world, alone as he is? Methos cannot receive any power from me greater than he has now, in his own inner strength and his love for his friend. If he cannot himself obtain access to the Snow Queen and remove the glass fragments from Duncan's eye and heart, we can do nothing to help him." With that, she led them back through the small wooden door, up the tunnel, and out into the crumbling ruin of the abbey. "A hundred miles from here," she told the reindeer, "the Snow Queen's icy garden begins. You can carry our friend that far and set him down by the gate. Do not stay gossiping, but come back here as quickly as you can." Then she bade farewell to Methos, who swung once more onto the reindeer's back. Before he could answer, the reindeer had begun to run.

"Wait," Methos cried, as soon as he felt the cutting cold. "I haven't got my boots or coat!" But the reindeer dared not stop. Flash, flash, went the beautiful blue northern lights in the air the whole night long.

The reindeer ran on for the better part of two days, till he reached the forbidding gate into the Snow Queen's demesne; here he set Methos down, and he whuffed softly into Methos' hand, great, bright tears spilling over his furry cheeks. And there he left Methos without another word.

And so Methos found himself without boots, without gloves, in the middle of a frozen, ice-bound wasteland. He had no choice but to continue on, so he turned and started to climb the gate. His hands and feet froze to the ice as soon as he touched it, and when he pulled them away, he bled, but up he went until he reached the top, then down the other side, biting his lip against the pain. Already he was beginning to freeze, his ears and cheeks and nose burning with the false heat that he knew meant frostbite. His breath crystallized in the air before him. Once inside the gates, he began to run, hoping that he could keep his blood flowing and his body warm enough so that he wouldn't die of the cold.

Before he had gone a dozen steps, a fierce gust of snowflakes swirled around him. They did not, however, fall from the sky, which was quite clear and glittering with the aurora borealis. Instead they ran along the ground, transforming themselves into a whole regiment of white wolves, larger and fiercer than any wolves Methos had ever heard of. They encircled Methos in a moment, snarling and snapping at his hands and face with their icy jaws. Certain that he must have met his death at last, Methos sent a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening, and a desperate wish that Duncan, wherever he might be, might know how hard Methos had tried to reach him—for these wolves, he knew, were not ordinary beasts that might be charmed or pleaded with, but the guards of the Snow Queen, against which he didn't stand a chance.

But not far away, the Lady saw in her crystal what was happening. She had no direct power against the Queen, but she was not completely helpless, for she had the ability to speak to the spirits of those who had died—and she knew, as Methos did not, that the ice-wolves were spirit creatures, the imprisoned souls of all those who had lost their lives on the North Sea and the icecap beyond. Hastily she sought and found those she knew would aid her and bade them hurry to the Queen's gate, where Methos was trapped.

To Methos, it seemed as though one moment he stood alone against the wolves, and the next he was surrounded by a dozen pale, ghostly figures, each carrying a sword and brandishing it against his attackers. Though he seemed to see right through the bodies of these ghostly warriors, the wolves recoiled in fear, snapping even more fiercely. To his right, he saw a small, sturdy figure with thick blond curls dart in agilely with his blade, scoring a hit against one of the beasts; directly before him, a tall figure wearing the robes of a priest wielded an ancient short sword with breathtaking precision, forcing the wolf pack to back away. On his other side, a petite woman with shining black hair and a red silk tunic dealt a fierce, open-handed blow to one of the beasts' snouts. Each time one of these blows landed, a wolf would shatter into a thousand fragments of ice and snow and disintegrate into nothing. Methos watched in astonishment as the ghostly figures fought their silent battle, until one by one, all the wolves were vanquished.

When it was over, it seemed to him that the figures solidified a bit, and he was more easily able to make out the faces of the warriors who had aided him. "How can I thank you?" he asked them, looking from one kind and noble countenance to another.

"No thanks are necessary," said the priest, in a beautifully accented voice that Methos immediately wished to hear again. "You care for Duncan, and that is more than enough."

"You've seen him?" Methos asked breathlessly, hoping it was so.

But the priest shook his head, smiling sadly. "Not for a long time, I'm afraid. I'm Darius."

"Hugh Fitzcairn," said the blond man, gallantly doffing a non-existent hat.

"May-Ling Shen." This was the slight, black-haired woman, who bowed formally.

"Tessa Noel," said a breathtaking blonde woman, the only one among them who carried no weapon.

"Brian Cullen," said one, "Jacob Galati," another, and "Irena," added the beautiful dark-eyed woman who had wielded a graceful Spanish blade. One by one the ghostly warriors introduced themselves to Methos, and he remembered many of their names, having heard Duncan speak of them with great affection and sorrow, for they were all dead and buried. When the last had spoken, he saw that they had been fading away little by little, until only the barest outlines showed against the snow. Then these, too, were gone, and only the priest remained.

"You'll tell him?" Darius asked, his gray eyes fixing Methos with demanding insistence.

"That he is loved?" His voice broke only a little, and he nodded. "Oh, yes."

In another moment, Methos stood alone in the garden, only the ice sculptures for company, but it seemed to him that he felt the cold less, and his feet carried him more rapidly toward the Snow Queen's hold. Already the battle seemed to have taken on the surreal quality of a dream, and he wondered if it had happened at all, or if he were experiencing the delusions that came with a slow death from freezing. No matter. He had come at last to the end of his long journey, and the inner gate rose up before him.

And all the while, Duncan thought nothing of his friend Methos, and never supposed he could be standing in front of the palace.


	7. Of the Palace of the Snow Queen and What Happened There At Last

The walls of the palace were formed of an ancient glacier, and the windows and doors of the cutting winds. There were more than a hundred rooms in it, like the many facets of a snowflake; the largest of them extended for several miles. They were lit up by the vivid, cold light of the aurora, but the halls of the Snow Queen were vast and empty, icy and glittering and utterly forbidding. There were no amusements here, no music or warmth nor any living thing. The only illusion of warmth was the flickering flame of the northern lights, which could be seen from every part of the castle.

In the middle of the great, endless hall of snow was a frozen lake, broken on its surface into a thousand forms; each piece resembled another, perfect and unchanging, and in the center of this lake sat the Snow Queen, when she was at home. She called the lake 'The Mirror of Reason' and said that it was the best, and in fact the only one, in the world.

Duncan was quite white with cold—indeed, almost blue—but he did not feel it, for the Snow Queen had kissed away the icy shiverings, and his heart was already a lump of ice. He spent his hours dragging some sharp, flat pieces of ice to and fro, and placing them together in all kinds of positions, as if he wished to make something out of them, just as one might play with a Chinese puzzle. Duncan's hands were quite skilled; it was the icy game of reason at which he played, and in his eyes the figures were very remarkable, and of the highest importance. This opinion was owing to the piece of glass still stuck in his eye. He composed many complete figures, forming different words, but there was one word he never could manage to form, although he wished it very much. It was the word "Immortality." The Snow Queen had said to him, "When you can solve this puzzle, you shall be my equal, and I will give you the whole world and a new pair of skates." But he could not accomplish it.

Today, Duncan was quite alone in the great hall, which was so many miles in length; so he sat and looked at his pieces of ice, thinking so deeply and sitting so still that anyone might have supposed he was frozen himself.

Meanwhile, Methos had reached the great door of the castle. Cutting winds raged against the sheer face of the glacier, and it seemed at first that just getting into the palace would prove impossible. But after he had stared up at the forbidding gate for a while, shivering in the gusting wind, he noticed what looked like a steep, treacherous staircase cut into the ice beside the gate. When he approached the foot of this staircase, he realized that the steps had been cut into a narrow chimney that was protected from the Arctic winds. Determined, he started up.

At the top, a narrow door awaited, but when he tried the door, it was locked tight with a copper padlock. Inspiration struck; he tried the key that Silas had given him, the one that unlocked the reindeer's collar, and sure enough, the key turned in the lock, and the door opened into the great entrance hall, whose ceilings towered a hundred feet above his head, tall as a cathedral. Through this hall and into another, and another, each more bleak and forbidding than the one before, Methos made his way deeper into the palace of the Snow Queen. This was a difficult journey indeed, for the palace was no place for any warm-blooded, living creature; every surface, including the floor, was made of razor sharp pieces of ice, and it was impossible to go a dozen steps without cutting oneself on these shards. But Methos felt that he must be very close now, and would not be discouraged.

At last he came to the great hall, at the center of which was the vast frozen lake. And there he saw a pale figure dressed all in white, sitting as still as a statue at the center of the lake, and his heart started to hammer fiercely against his ribs. Only by the raven's wing of his dark hair was Duncan recognizable, but Methos knew him at once, even from that great distance.

Before he knew it, he had stepped out onto the lake. He took two long strides toward his friend, and then broke into a run.

As soon as he saw Duncan up close, he knew that something terrible had happened to him, but he couldn't help himself; so relieved was he to see Duncan alive that he threw his arms around Duncan's neck and seized him close, burying his face against his friend's and holding on tightly. "Duncan! Oh, my friend, I've found you at last."

But Duncan sat quite still, stiff and cold, his skin like marble.

Methos let him go and looked into his eyes, looking for some sign of recognition, but those eyes were no longer sad, nor warm with affection, but cold and hard as chips of black ice. "Don't you know me?" Methos asked in a small voice, a sinking dread beginning to take hold in his stomach.

At that, Duncan seemed at last to notice him there, and he blinked as if waking from a deep trance. "Should I?" he said, but it had been so long since he had spoken that his voice sounded like icicles cracking.

Methos wanted to say something that would reach him, wanted to tell him the things he'd been afraid to tell him that perfect summer so long ago, but his beloved friend now wore the face of a stranger, and his courage deserted him. "Surely you must remember," Methos said, fighting despair. To have come so far only to find that he'd lost Duncan after all was a cruel blow indeed.

A suspicious look came into Duncan's face then, and he backed away. "I don't know you," he said in that awful, splintered-ice voice. And before Methos could answer, Duncan opened his hand. In it, Methos now saw, was one of the flat pieces of ice that lay strewn about; as he watched, Duncan flung the piece away from him. It shattered against the frozen lake with a high-pitched, tinkling sound like glass breaking.

In an instant, a fierce, bitter wind gusted through the great hall. It froze Methos to the spot, a cutting cold that went right through to the bone. Before he could marshal his wits, the Snow Queen was standing before him in all her terrifying glory, green eyes flashing against the white perfection of her skin, a deadly chill emanating from her that Methos knew might kill him in an instant if it touched him.

"Well, well," she said with a sneer of haughty amusement. "What have we here? A rat in the pantry, I see. Well done, my solstice child." Duncan basked in the praise, but his smile was so empty and cold and so unlike his own warm expression that Methos couldn't bear to look at him.

"He's nothing to you," he said defiantly to the Queen, despair making him reckless. "Why?"

At that, the Snow Queen reached out and brushed the very tips of her fingers along Methos' neck. She barely touched him, but it was enough to penetrate his whole body with ice, the cold so intense it took his breath. "You don't remember me, do you, Methos?" she said softly, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction at his fear. "No, I can see that you don't, for that was another place and time, and your conscious mind remembers only this world. But I remember you, of that you can be sure."

At that, a chill shuddered through Methos, and old, dark memories stirred under the surface of his mind like a deadly, primordial beast stirring beneath dark waves. His breath came short, and a thick fog seemed to close down around the perimeter of his vision, so that he could no longer see Duncan or the great hall or the frozen lake, but only the Queen, her beautiful, deadly gaze filling his perceptions. Then she looked down, and he had no choice but to follow her gaze.

In her hand she held a snowflake. Against another woman's hand such a delicate, intricate thing would have melted away, but in hers it only glittered with beautiful, cold perfection. "Look closer," she said, her breath icy against Methos' ear. He did, compelled by her Voice.

The crystalline structure seemed to grow larger as he looked at it, until he realized that each tiny facet held an image, and then not just an image, but a whole world, as if the tiny snowflake were made up of miniature windowpanes, each offering a glimpse into some other place and time, a vast, intricate design of worlds upon worlds, each one different from his own. And in each of them it seemed that he saw himself, and Duncan, and the Snow Queen—and not just the three of them, but all those he had met on his journey, the priest and the Lady, the prince and the princess, the huntsman and the giant, all shimmering there in infinitely varying patterns in the palm of the Snow Queen's hand.

Dizzy with sudden vertigo, Methos managed to tear his gaze away from the hypnotic images just in time, for he had been very close to losing himself in the infinite pattern. "What are you?" he whispered.

"Your fate," the Queen said, as if kindly, though there was no mercy in her. "In this world, as in all the others, Methos, I am the reckoning you must face for the pain you have caused."

"I only wanted to be with him," Methos whispered. "That's all."

"And so you shall," the Snow Queen said, and kissed him on the forehead.

The coldness of her kiss sank through him like the dark, bitter cold of the sea. Methos felt as though he were breathing water, but it was a curiously calming sensation, for the water was very cold indeed, numbing him almost instantly. A part of him grieved bitterly, fighting to keep hold of his memories, but his fear began to bleed away, and after a while, he forgot why he had been afraid. The Snow Queen showed him the little flat pieces of ice and told him that he might make patterns with them to amuse himself. He began to arrange the pieces, and indeed, found them quite fascinating; so absorbed was he that he did not even notice Duncan beside him, similarly engaged.

Still, Methos had not been infected by the looking-glass, and so his heart could not be frozen, not completely, and even as the days passed and he remained under the Snow Queen's spell, deep within his breast there was a part of him that went on grieving. And so it was that one day as he sat arranging and rearranging the shards of ice, he happened to spell out Duncan's name.

For a long time he stared at the pieces. And though he could not remember why this name was important, his heart remembered. The pain of it, much like the return of feeling to limbs that have been frozen, brought memory flooding back, and he looked and saw Duncan a little distance away, busy with his own puzzle. It struck him as the bitterest thing in the world, that he should have had his heart's desire right beside him all this time and been unable to recognize it. Then he thought that the Queen would soon return, and he might never again have the chance to say the things he should have said so long ago.

And so he got up and went to his friend, kneeling before him. "Duncan, listen to me," he said softly, trying once more to reach him, though he knew it was futile. And though Duncan's eyes were as cold and dead as ever, and he tried to pull away, this time Methos held his face between his hands and would not let him go. "I never needed anyone before I met you. But I need you now, Duncan. I need you to come back to me. Nothing means anything without you, do you understand?" But it was no use; Duncan only curled his lip in scorn, staring at him uncomprehending. And so, at last, Methos could not help himself; hot tears welled up, and there in the coldest hall of the Snow Queen's palace, he bowed his head and wept.

The tears splashed down onto the frozen lake, but some of them fell upon Duncan's breast. When this happened, their heat reached straight through to his friend's frozen heart, thawing the lump of ice as nothing else could have. In another moment, the little shard of glass had dissolved away. Then Duncan drew a deep breath, as if it were the first he'd drawn in a long time. He looked at Methos, and recognition sparked. "Methos?"

Methos' breath caught. He dared to look up. And saw Duncan, his Duncan, looking back at him in confusion. The fierce knot of his heart unclenched, and he felt like laughing and crying at the same time. He did both, not caring that he looked a fool. "Yes, it's me."

The same brightness shimmered in Duncan's eyes. A little spilled over, and the splinter of glass that had lodged in his eye was washed clean away. Duncan traced the shape of Methos' face with his hands and his gaze, as if seeing him for the first time. A small frown gathered between his dark brows. "But where have you been all this time, and where have I been?"

"Lost," Methos said hoarsely. "You've been lost...oh, such a long time, my friend."

"But not any more."

"No," he managed at last. "Not any more."

And Duncan's arms went around him and held him tight while Methos kissed Duncan's cheeks, his eyes, his mouth until they all bloomed warm under his caresses, and he knew the Snow Queen held no power to keep them any longer.

"This place is cold as a witch's tit," Duncan said after a while, grinning that crooked grin Methos had almost forgotten. "Let's go someplace warmer."

Methos let Duncan pull him to his feet, and didn't argue.


	8. Epilogue: And in the Morning's Light

A hangover would have been a kindness. Instead Methos woke to depressing sobriety and a flat that felt more like January than early April. The combination was merciless enough to bring the dream with him whole cloth into waking awareness; for long moments it was more real than memory, and he had some trouble placing century and city. When memory came, it was no comfort.

It had been temperate enough in the flat last night, or at least as well as he could remember before he'd switched to the serious intoxicants; a cold front must have come in overnight, winter's last little jab at him and his fellow Parisians. And of course he'd been in no shape to set the thermostat. He hadn't even managed to crawl under the duvet, just passed out in his shorts on top of the bed. No wonder he was freezing and dreaming of the Arctic.

The problem with sleeping so much was that it left plenty of REM time for the psyche to come up with really creative forms of sabotage. Throw a great deal of very old whisky into the mix, and you were asking for trouble. This one, he had to admit, took the prize. Eighty years it must have been since he'd read that particular story, if it was a day, and the subconscious still remembered. Thank God Mac would never know—but wouldn't Cassandra have laughed, to know the wonderfully twisted forms of penance Methos' own brain could dream up, left to its own devices?

Come to think of it, he didn't know if Cassandra laughed. Probably too busy sharpening her fangs.

Giving in to base necessity, Methos got up and relieved himself, then went and turned on the heat before returning to the bed and bundling up in the layers of bedclothes. He knew perfectly well that he'd been sleeping far too much of the time lately, and why, but the animal comfort of a warm, rumpled bed was too compelling on a morning this cold. God knew his little bender last night hadn't been an answer. He really ought to know better by now, but somehow, it had just seemed the appropriate response to the events of the past few days.

At least he and Mac were speaking to each other again, more or less, even if it had taken all of Amanda's cajoling and wheedling to make it happen. Too bad drinking himself into unconsciousness hadn't made him feel any less jealous of her easy, obvious certainty of her place in Mac's life. Not her fault, he knew, and he hated feeling that way. It was just hard not to want what she was given so freely.

What would Mac be doing on a morning like this?

 _Stop it,_ he told himself wearily, pulling the pillow over his head. _Stop driving yourself crazy, stop feeling sorry for yourself, stop lying about like a sloth and get up, for God's sake. Go find a new place to live, a job, a new life somewhere. What the hell are you waiting for?_

He toyed idly with thoughts of alternate identities, careers, continents.

 _Out running, probably, the insufferable bastard. Or maybe he only wants people to think he's that disciplined. Maybe he's curled up in bed right this minute, drinking cocoa, eating peanut butter from a jar, and watching cartoons._

 _On the other hand, maybe Amanda's still in town._

He groaned, disgusted with himself, and socked a fist into the other pillow.

Wished he didn't still feel the dream-pressure of that soft mouth against his, lips cool at first, but warming with his kiss.

 _God, you're pathetic._

 _Tell me something I don't know,_ he snarled at his incessant inner commentator, and threw the covers back savagely, swinging his feet to the floor.

It took the better part of the day, but by the time afternoon was wearing on toward evening, he'd managed to get most of the flat packed up. The majority of the books he'd stacked in boxes to be put into storage, and the rest had been easy enough; most of his art and furniture was still in storage, anyway, and he'd made up his mind to let what was left go with the flat. Tired, but feeling better than he had in a long time, he grabbed a beer and sat down on a crate in the middle of the room, surveying his progress.

The afternoon had turned gray while he'd worked, the sky heavy with threatening snow clouds, and the light outside already felt like dusk, though it was barely after four. If he was going to get out of the city tonight, it would have to be soon. Probably, the wise thing to do would be to wait out the storm—but it felt so good to be doing something finally, after so many months of hiding, that he thought it best to let momentum carry the day. He didn't want to spend another night in his flat; he'd seen too much of it these past months. He'd stay in a hotel if he had to.

Besides, he thought maybe he'd had enough sleep for a while. This morning's nightmare, if one could call it a nightmare, had stayed with him all day, the images too vivid to forget easily. He wasn't eager to revisit the strange country of his subconscious any time soon. Not that he was above a little revisionist history now and then—but revisionist history mixed with Hans Christian Andersen was a bit much to take.

Shaking his head, Methos finished his beer and got to his feet, checking the labels on the boxes and crates one last time before slinging his carry-all over his shoulder; he left the beer bottle on the table by the door, turned off the light, and locked the door behind him.

* * *

He really couldn't have said what made him tell the cabby to turn toward Notre Dame rather than the airport. It wasn't on the way. It certainly wasn't likely to turn out to be the wisest thing he'd ever done. But the words were out before he knew it, and taking them back would have been...he didn't know. Some kind of admission.

So, all right. He'd say goodbye to MacLeod. It wasn't like it could make things any worse, and the burnt remains of their friendship deserved some sort of acknowledgment, he supposed, before they both moved on.

Traffic was worse than he'd hoped, everyone hurrying to get home before the snow, and it quickly became obvious that he should have taken the Metro. By the time the first feathery white flakes began to blow across the windscreen, they were at a standstill, still almost a mile from the river. Methos leaned forward and paid the driver, saying that he'd get another cab on the next block. The bastard laughed good-naturedly. _"Bonne chance,"_ he warned, but Methos ignored him and climbed out of the warm, dry car and into the snowy twilight.

Of course, the cabby had been right, and there wasn't a taxi to be had between Saint-Honoré and the Louvre. Construction at the museum stop of the Metro forced him out of his way by three blocks, and even the wind seemed to be trying to make him turn back, gusting north off the river and stinging his eyes with snow.

Some small, not entirely rational part of him was beginning to entertain the superstitious idea that if he stopped moving for too long, the fabric of reality would shift slightly around him, and he'd arrive at the quay to find that no barge was moored there, and that no one remembered anyone by the name of Duncan MacLeod. It wasn't the first time it had snowed in Paris in April, not by a long shot. The previous year, there'd been snow on the ground into the first week of May, he remembered. So why did it feel as though the forces of the universe were arrayed against him?

The snow was falling thick and fast by the time he emerged from the Metro station and turned toward the river, turning his collar up against the cold. It did little good; he was already wet through. At least he still had his boots, he thought a little crazily. Thank goodness for small mercies. Now as long as he didn't meet up with any wolves or giants, he'd be doing fine.

In spite of his apparently slipping hold on reality, the barge was right where he'd left it. He couldn't help the relief he felt, the knot in his stomach unclenching a little at the sight of its familiar silhouette, the lights of Notre Dame ghostly behind it. But by the time he reached the bottom of the steps, he could see there were no lights at the portholes, and Duncan's car was nowhere in evidence. He jogged to the edge of the quay anyway, but no Immortal buzz rewarded his persistence; Duncan wasn't home.

At a loss, Methos stood there for a moment, hands in his pockets, shivering a little and fighting an unexpectedly intense pang of disappointment. For a while there he'd thought.... Well, never mind what he'd thought. Life sure as hell wasn't a fairy tale. If anyone ought to know that,  it was him.

The temperature was dropping. For a fleeting instant he toyed with the idea of going inside anyway, waiting for Duncan to come home...but he pushed the thought away, irritated with himself. It had been an impulse, and a poorly conceived one at that. Better just to go. It wasn't as though anything he might say could change anything. He permitted himself one last look, then hoisted his carryall higher on his shoulder and turned back toward the steps.

Once more back on the street level, he hurried through the ever-thickening snowfall, head lowered and hands buried in his pockets; still, for no reason he could have explained, he passed the entrance to the Metro and kept going on foot, numb to the miserable weather. He felt disjointed and equally numb on the inside, as if a weight were being lifted from him with each step, but one that left an ache of infinite, cold grayness in its place. He should have been glad to be freed at last from the ties that had held him so long. Should have been grateful for the twist of fate that had saved him from suffering one last unpleasant scene. He let his feet carry him back across the bridge to the mainland, feeling nothing but the soft, glistening layer of snow crunching under his boots.

The steady rhythm of his long stride helped some, and after a while he began to feel a little better. Thoughts of the South Pacific cheered him. Time for some sunshine, far away from Paris and its unrelenting concentration of Immortals. Just thinking of it made him aware once more of the wind and the penetrating cold; he hurried towards the next block, spotting an entrance to the Metro across the street.

So intent was he on his destination that he never saw the slow, inevitably disastrous spin of the lorry that had taken the corner too fast for the road conditions; so thick was the snow that he didn't see the car headed straight for him until it was already well into its slide.

The tires made no sound on the wet pavement. He had time only to notice the oddness of that before he felt the blunt smack of impact, bone against steel.

* * *

"Unbelievable," said a familiar voice, the buzz heavy and sweet as opium. It made him sit up too fast. "Hey, easy. Easy. You all right?"

Duncan swam into focus, crouching over him with a half-worried, half-bemused expression. He smelled of wool and woodsmoke, and he had snow in his hair.

Methos tried to move, then thought better of it as his head throbbed, and blinding pain shot through his wrist. When the worst of it passed and he could breathe again, he was sitting on the cold, wet sidewalk, clutching at Duncan's coat, his broken wrist cradled in his lap. Duncan's gloved hand gripped his arm. "Yeah," he managed, grimacing and trying not to pass out. "What the hell happened?"

"You got hit by a car," Duncan informed him solemnly.

"Thanks for the news flash. I meant, what the hell are you doing here?"

He looked apologetic. "It was my car."

Methos blinked. "You're not serious."

"Well, you shouldn't have been crossing where you were, you know. Especially not in this weather."

Methos closed his eyes and just shook his head mutely, at a loss for anything coherent to say to that. Other complaints besides his wrist were making themselves known: bruises and cuts, nothing serious. "Anyone else hurt?" he asked at last, flexing his wrist as the bones started to knit themselves back together.

"Just shaken up. The driver of the truck said something about taking you to the hospital, but I think I talked him out of it."

"Remind me to thank you later."

They spent several minutes persuading the small crowd of onlookers that Methos was fine and would be sure to get himself seen to by a doctor. MacLeod gave a convincing performance as the Good Samaritan and concerned citizen—aided, no doubt, by his considerable experience in that role. It didn't hurt that no one particularly wanted to stand about arguing the point in the snow; in a remarkably short time, they were alone on the sidewalk.

Duncan's gloved hand was warm on Methos' arm as they waited for the fractures to heal, and Methos wondered if he realized he hadn't removed it. He probed the lump at the back of his head gingerly.

"Bad?" Duncan said, and the apology was real this time.

Methos shook his head, fighting the temptation to lean against his solid strength. "Another minute, that's all." The awkwardness was back. It hadn't changed, not in four months, and Methos knew he shouldn't have expected anything to be different now, just because strange forces were at work. He wasn't sure he wanted to think about the odds involved in this particularly unlikely set of circumstances, or what it might mean.

When the healing was finished, he pulled his gloves back on and let Duncan lever him to his feet; they stood there for a moment, the awkwardness acute.

"Can I give you a lift somewhere?" Duncan asked finally.

"The way you drive?" Methos said, an attempt at lightness he didn't feel. "You've got to be joking."

Duncan smiled a little, but it was forced. He'd noticed the carryall. "Airport, maybe?" he said quietly, watching Methos' expression.

And Methos found he couldn't maintain the effort at casual bravado any more. He was cold, and sore, and shaken up, and the snow was still falling mercilessly, the flakes coming down in thick, wet clumps that dusted Duncan's hair and broad shoulders and clung to his eyelashes in a way that hurt to look at. "I'll manage, thanks," he said, and took more satisfaction than he should have at the little flare of hurt in the other man's eyes.

"Okay," Duncan said at last, nodding slowly, his face too controlled. "If that's what you want."

Something let go in Methos' chest, like a rose unfurling. He blinked. "You know it isn't," he said. Then blinked again, fiercely, because there was something in his eyes, and it wasn't snow. Mortified, he pulled away and averted his face.

Duncan, damn him, took a hesitant step forward, closing the distance between them. "Methos?" His tone was half-disbelieving, half-hopeful, a sweetly vulnerable sound that undermined every attempt Methos was making at recovering his cool, uncaring detachment.

"Don't," he warned, but had to stop because his voice had betrayed him.

"Methos, talk to me," Duncan urged, still too close for comfort. "I thought we were past this."

Methos turned on him. "Why? Because you say so?"

Stung, Duncan paled, then two spots of color appeared on his cheeks, the flush of his own answering anger. The soft lushness of his mouth turned to hard lines. "Damn you," he grated out. "What the hell do you want from me?"

"Nothing! That's the point, don't you get it? I want nothing from you! I just—" he broke off.

"What?" Duncan moved, one quick step closer, his hand flexing as though he would have liked to seize Methos by the arm; apparently he knew better, though, and his hand fell back to his side without making contact. "Tell me."

Methos' control snapped, four months of silence giving way in the face of that irresistible demand. "I want you not to look at me like that any more," he said bluntly. "I want to stop hurting, Mac. I want for none of it ever to have happened." His frustration and despair welled up. "For God's sake, what do you think I want?"

Dark eyes blazed. "You really want to know? I think you want me to make it easy for you. I think you want me to be the bad guy. Because if you convince yourself I'm the one who's not willing to see reason, you can pretend it doesn't matter that you're running away." His expression dared Methos to deny it. "Am I close?" He was without mercy, eyes demanding, revealing a hurt that ran deep and had never healed.

Methos didn't answer. Couldn't answer. A wash of heat rose in his chest, swept through his body with merciless insistence, making his eyes burn and his throat ache with the desperate effort to contain it. _Close enough,_ he would have said if he could.

 _I never needed anyone before I met you._

He knew he should go now. Knew that if he didn't, the unthinkable was going to happen. The pressure in his chest was unbearable.

"Don't you think I want those things, too?" Duncan asked then, voice harsh with feeling. "Don't you think I've wished things could have been different?"

The wave of heat crested, escaped on a soft breath that betrayed everything. "Oh, Mac."

The lines of Duncan's face altered, a subtle shift that took maybe two seconds—two seconds in which everything between them changed. The dark eyes widened almost imperceptibly...and then lit with a deep, clear-burning flame that Methos felt like the first sweet breath of summer. Methos reached out then and did what he'd been wanting to do since he'd first opened his eyes to find Duncan crouching over him; he brushed the soft snowflakes from the dark silk of his hair. Almost at once, new ones started to take their places.

Duncan caught his hand before it could fall away and took it between his own gloved ones, drawing it close to his chest, an odd little gesture that made Methos' heart turn over, his breath catch. The world shifted, reshaping itself around the unlikely center of their joined hands.

"Do you believe in fate?" Methos asked at last, when he could.

Duncan shook his head, bemused. "Never did before."

Methos was thinking of the glittering facets of a snowflake, dizzyingly infinite. "I never did either," he admitted. "Funny, though, us meeting like this. Maybe someone's trying to tell us something."

Duncan smiled crookedly. "On the other hand, maybe I've been following you around town just waiting for the chance to run you over with my car."

"Either way," Methos shrugged, unfazed.

"Yeah?" Duncan's voice was rough.

And Methos leaned forward and kissed him, long and sweet, Duncan's mouth soft against his, warm enough to thaw the coldest heart.

By the time they broke for air he was breathless, gloved hands wound in the thick hair, pressing himself into the warm opening of the other man's coat; he found he was shivering, the sudden heat almost painful after being cold for so long.

Opening his eyes, Duncan sucked in a breath. His mouth opened, then closed. He cleared his throat. "You never said anything," he said at last.

"You never asked," Methos countered.

The dark eyes questioned him seriously, with an intensity that made his heart beat faster. "And if I'm asking now?"

Methos stroked the back of his neck, feeling the strength of the fine, corded muscles, the faint shudder of response that ran through Duncan's body. "Let's go home," he said, "and you can ask me that question again. Because I think my answer is going to take a while."

Duncan, wisely, didn't argue.

  
 _The End_

  



End file.
